The room, actually a suite, was on the fourteenth floor with an immediate view of Central Park’s changing fall trees, the fountains, the paths and the little bridges. I could see all the way up to the Boathouse; the rest evaporated into blue air. A tall, good-looking, room service man carrying a tray was about to leave as Mr. Knoedel let me in.
“Tommy?” I smiled and shook his hand. “Would you like a drink? I just had a bottle of Scotch brought up.”
I told him no. I couldn’t drink and do what I did, no way. But if he wanted one, why not? The attendant, after being tipped, bowed and left. Knoedel locked the door quickly behind us. Then he poured himself a double with some ice from a small bar cabinet fridge.
He smiled nervously, as if he still weren’t quite sure what to do with me. I tri
